


A Taste of Things To Come (Sherlock Holmes ficlets)

by Toft



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Animal Transformation, Bodyswap, Crack, Eldritch, Fae & Fairies, Ficlet Collection, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Post Episode: s02e06 Trinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 06:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: Written long ago on Dreamwidth, a series of ficlets anticipating the fanfiction tropes that would descend upon Sherlock Holmes fandom with the new Robert Downey Jr movie. Little did I know. Warning: these are extremely silly.





	1. Musical Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: bodyswap.

A dull flash filled the room, and the three men sprang back from the device.

"For God's sake, Holmes, now _I'm_ Lestrade!" Watson cried. He paused, then winced, and shuffled the police inspector's body from foot-to-foot in a most uncharacteristic way. "I say, Lestrade, you really ought to see a physician about these piles."

Lestrade glared, his usual irritation far more impressive on Holmes' face. "You can keep your observations about my back passage to yourself, Doctor, _if_ you please! Speaking of which, what on earth have you been doing to make yours so -"

"Yes, all right, Inspector, point taken," Watson said quickly. "Holmes, can you fix this or not?"

Holmes rubbed his temples wearily, then nearly poked himself in the eye, and cursed. "Hell! Watson, your forehead is altogether too small. I don't know how you stand it. Very well, gentlemen, if you could place your palm against _that_ panel, Lestr- I mean, Watson, and if you could your place your hand _here_, we will try again."

Another flash. The three looked at each other cautiously.

"Well?" Lestrade said at last. "Everyone... where they're supposed to be?"

Holmes heaved a sigh, and collapsed into a chair, covering his face with his hands. "Forgive me, gentlemen, if I say that at this moment I never wish to see either of you ever again."

"You'll hear no protests from me," said the police inspector grimly, putting on his hat. "Next time you want subjects for your little experiments, Mr. Holmes, you will find I am previously engaged! Good day to you both."

A silence followed his departure.

"A singular experience, Watson," Holmes said at last, lighting his pipe with slightly trembling fingers, "And not one I care to repeat. Perhaps it may make for a particularly interesting monograph in a few years." He turned. "Watson?"

"I don't know what you're looking at me for," Watson said, "I'm Lestrade."

When Watson had stopped laughing long enough to prevent Holmes from choking to death on his pipe stem, a short but vigorous tussle ensued on the living room floor, which ended in the sad demise of one of Mrs. Hudson's vases, and, some minutes later, the rather more satisfactory little deaths of the participants.

"I'm sorry," Watson said later, staring up at the living room ceiling, one hand idly stroking inside Holmes' half-open shirt, "that I did not get more of a chance to enjoy being you. I have always wondered what it is like."

"You would have quite ruined my reputation if you'd been me in any professional capacity," Holmes said lazily. "I would reciprocate the sentiment, except that in my short time in your body I discovered that your shoulder is far more stiff than you let on, and that being devastatingly attractive is not nearly as exciting as I had imagined."

"I'd have thought you'd have had a lifetime to learn the latter," Watson yawned, "And my shoulder is not so bad. Besides, you did not get to test-run my other features. My hair is very easy to clean. And my nipples are quite excellent."

"So I have observed," Holmes said. He was thinking, and as he had no other convenient surface nearby, he tapped his fingers on Watson's thigh to aid him in the process. "I believe," he said at last, "that my monograph might require more data for conclusive results."

"Oh?" said Watson, all innocence. "Shall I call back Inspector Lestrade? Or Mrs. Hudson?"

"That will not be necessary," said Holmes, climbing on top of him and divesting himself of his shirt, "That for this stage of the experiment, we shall decrease the variables to two."

"And who," Watson inquired, breath hitching, "Will be the control?"

"Me, I think," Holmes said, and grinned.


	2. You're the Cream in My Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: coffee shop AU.

"And, sir, you may wish to remember that no gentleman with a true understanding of coffee would ever half-fill his cup with milk!"

The door slammed, and my newest employee strode back towards the counter, leaving the youngest son of the Earl of Winsborough lying dazed - but not, thank God, bloodied - on the cobblestones. The other customers - an elderly colonel, two young ladies and their chaperones, four Salvation Army members and a young City man writing furiously in a ledger - looked up in astonishment.

"Good lord, man," I said, with some heat, "Is this your idea of drumming up business? We have barely been open a week, we can't afford to have you throwing customers out into the street! I heard no disturbance in the shop - what on earth was his crime?"

"My apologies, Doctor Watson," Holmes said, smoothing his hair back from his face. There were two spots of colour high on his cheeks, but otherwise his appearance was soon immaculate. He suddenly seemed to notice that I was out of my chair, and leaped to my side. "Please, do sit down, Doctor. I will explain."

He offered his arm, and, reluctantly, I allowed myself to be helped back to my armchair. Even this small activity caused me not a little discomfort, and I could not help a sigh of relief as my injured leg was relieved of its burden. When I opened my eyes, I found him scrutinizing me.

"Well, Holmes?" I snapped, my temper made sharper by embarrassment.

He gave no reaction, but said, "Did you know that young Mr. Teese-Rawlett plays cards for high stakes?"

"I did not," I said, surprised, "But if we turn away every gambler in London, we will have a very small number of customers left! This is a coffee house, not a church."

"You misunderstand me," Holmes said. "He has a reputation among several other London establishments for refusing to pay his bills. When I gave him his cup of Moroccan roast, I noted the crumpled gambling slip on the floor beside him. It was clearly not a winner, or he would have had it in his wallet. I then noticed the slight motion in his coat pocket. He had a mouse."

"A mouse!"

I shuddered. Since Afghanistan, I have a horror of rodents.

"Rather than wait for him to cause a scene, and possibly disturb Mrs. Hudson -" I appreciated his tactful omission of myself, although he must have noticed my dismay, "- or cause a scandal by accusing him, I thought it best to have a fit of artistic temperament. Such scenes tend to enhance the reputation of an establishment, rather than diminish it. Do you feel that I acted wrongly?"

"By no means," I said quickly. "You thought very fast, and you have saved me a great deal of trouble. Thank you, Holmes."

He gave a quick smile and nodded, then left me to reflect on his peculiarities. I have called him my employee, but, truth be told, at our first meeting I felt quite as if he were interviewing me for a position. Mrs. Hudson had managed the small coffee house for my late uncle for many years, but the previous coffee buyer and blender, a Mr. Jebediah Simpson, had disappeared with a large amount of my uncle's revenue while on a buying trip to the West Indies (a shock to my uncle which no doubt contributed to his sudden death by apoplexy), and thus the establishment I inherited was like a surgical bag without a stethoscope. Despite my weak constitution, I took it upon myself to engage a coffee-blender, with Mrs. Hudson's assistance. The woman is very capable housekeeper, and her cakes and biscuits are beyond compare, but my uncle had run the coffee part of the business, and I did not think it fair to lay such a responsibility solely on her shoulders.

It was quite by chance that I came across Holmes, through an old friend of mine from St. Barts who frequented a number of London coffee houses. "He is pretty abrasive," my friend had warned me, "But he mixes the best damned roast in all of London." 

On our meeting, the latter fact was certainly confirmed. As for the former, no doubt Mr. Teese-Rawlett would agree, but I must admit that I found Holmes - well, rather more charming than I could admit, even to myself.

"Doctor Watson," he said, startling me from my reverie. He instantly laid a hand on my shoulder to stop me from getting up. "I do beg your pardon," he said, contrite. "I have something for you."

He pressed a hot mug into my hand. A rich, bitter smell rose from it. He interlaced his fingers under his chin, his eyes blazing with barely contained excitement.

"Holmes," I said slowly, "Is this -"

"The new beans from Indonesia, yes."

I inhaled deeply, as Holmes had taught me, then made to take a sip, but his cool fingers wrapped around my own, and held the cup back from my lips. His touch transfixed me, and my eyes flew to his. I do not know what he read in them, but his own grey eyes widened a little, and his fingers tightened on my own. An endless moment seemed to pass. "Doctor," he said at last, a strange edge to his voice, "I am afraid you will burn yourself." My heart, pounding with startled hope, believed he was speaking of more than just the coffee.

Holding his gaze, I whispered, "I will be careful."

A loud burst of laughter came from the front of the shop, and Holmes released me instantly, springing back. Nobody entered, and to dispel the awkward moment I blew on the hot liquid, and finally drank. 

"Holmes," I said, in frank amazement. "This is wonderful!"

For an instant, I saw a delighted, unguarded smile cross his features before he assumed a more urbane air of satisfaction.

"Let us hope it will be enough to draw in customers," he said.

"I am sure it will," I said fervently. I took another sip, and closed my eyes as the smoky taste transported me to warmer climes. When I opened them again, Holmes was very close.

"I have found, Doctor, that one can tell a great deal about a man from his reaction to excellent coffee," he murmured. "I deduced a large number of facts about you from yours before we had even been introduced."

"Oh?" I said, my heart in my throat. His knees brushed against mine, sending shivers through me. "What did you deduce about me?"

"That you had come lately from Afghanistan, where you were in the army," Holmes murmured. "that you had been trained as a physician, and had been extremely unwell of late. That I would rather work for you than any man in London. And that you might not be averse to me kissing you, given the right circumstances. Are these the right circumstances?"

"Yes," I breathed, and he did. I have never again drunk coffee without remembering that first, glorious taste of his mouth.

The success of our establishment is often attributed to Holmes' coffee and Mrs. Hudson's excellent cakes, but I credit myself with no small part of this. As it turns out, Holmes has a habit of discovering coffee recipes in his sleep, but he rarely wakes enough to remember them in the morning. I have begun to keep a notebook by the bed.


	3. Unnatural Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: surprise eldritch features.

"Holmes!" I cried, appalled. 

Holmes made a violent effort to pull the bedclothes over the evidence of his shame, but I had already seen too much. 

"Dammit, Watson," he said in a low tone, "I had hoped you would not find out this way."

He allowed me to pull the sheet aside. I realized now that I had never seen him out of trousers, and that he always wore his slippers indoors. He had clearly been polishing his hooves with the cloth in his hand, and the hair on his legs was thick and brown. He thrust my hand aside and stood up, turning so that I could see the full picture - his goat-legs, his tail.

"Well, Watson?" he sneered. "What do you think of this medical impossibility?"

"You're magnificent, Holmes," I breathed. "I have always thought so. Your tail - may I touch it?"

I had never seen Holmes flush, but he did so now. He remained quite still while I stroked my fingers along his tail, his expression unreadable.

"Watson," he whispered at last. "Am I to take it that all this time I have been unaware that you are a - faun fancier?"

"I cannot deny it," I said, my voice thick. "Holmes, what fools we are. To think I have been clandestinely attending clubs - taking foolish risks to fulfil my unnatural urges - when I had you here, concealing your hooves in those ridiculous slippers. Make love to me, man."

"Not entirely a man," Holmes said, with strange triumph, and he cast off his robe and stood bare before me.

"No," I murmured. "A god."


	4. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: mpreg.

My hands trembled a little as I lowered my stethoscope.

"Holmes," I said gravely, and raised my eyes to his, then found I could not form the words.

"Well, doctor?" he snapped, drawing the covers up around himself. I had never seen him so agitated about his physical health, and that, more than his strange array of symptoms, had alarmed me. My conclusions, however, were almost fantastical.

"Holmes, I'm sorry," I said, barely managing a whisper. "It's my belief that you are carrying a child."

Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly controlling himself. A strand of his inky hair fell over his sweaty forehead, and I longed to brush it away. "It is as I feared," he said at last, his voice hollow. "Professor Moriarty's machinations are more hideous - and more strange - than the worst imaginations of London's criminal underworld."

I straightened my shoulders, and cleared my throat. My duty was clear.

"I shall not leave you alone in this, Holmes," I said, and dropped to one knee. His eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline.

"My dear fellow, don't be ridiculous," he said, but he was visibly moved. "I could not - Watson - how could you raise a child, knowing it was not yours?"

"It would be enough, Holmes," I said, impressing as much meaning as I could into those few words, and I took his hand in mine, "that it was yours."


	5. Pear Drops Heal Society's Ills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: deageing.

Mrs Hudson shrieked as the dirty street urchin escaped her skirts and burst into the drawing room. I scrutinized him carefully, but I did not recognise him as one of Holmes' agents. He was panting so hard and so flushed that I was quite concerned, and I instructed the horrified Mrs. Hudson to bring our guest a glass of water.

"Can I help you?" I inquired at last, somewhat bemused.

"For heaven's sake, Watson," he snapped shrilly, "Help me!"

For a moment, I blinked, wondering if even Holmes could possibly disguise himself as a six-year-old. But no - there was no hunching or kneeling, and his face, underneath the filth that grimed it, was smooth and round-cheeked.

"What is it, boy?" I said gently, ignoring his rudeness, as he was obviously distressed. "Is your mother ill?"

"Damn and blast it!" roared the child, drawing himself up to his full height (which was approaching that of the dining table) and appearing positively incandescent with rage, although the effect was rather ruined by his voice, which was rather squeaky. "Watson! Find some way to reverse this - this thing! Dammit, it is I! Holmes!"

My mouth fell open.

"I keep my tobacco in that persian slipper over there," the boy said impatiently. "You ate curried eggs for breakfast this morning. I am currently following up on the Hoskins blackmailing case. The mud on your boots in the hall tells me that you went to Chiswick this morning, no doubt in an attempt to replace your pipe-stem again at Hopkins'. Are you convinced?"

His voice had risen dangerously in pitch, and his lower lip was trembling. I hastily assented, although I still could scarcely believe it. "Yes, yes, Holmes, but how on earth could this have happened?"

The boy heaved a deep sigh, and attempted to hoist himself up into his usual armchair. After several attempts, it was clear that he did not have the strength or height to manage it. I touched his shoulder. "Let me give you a hand, young - that is, Holmes."

His lip trembled even more violently, and a number of conflicting impulses warred on his expressive face before he thrust his arms up in resignation, and I lifted him gently and placed him on the chair. To my surprise, he flung his arms around my neck and burst into passionate tears. I patted his back and hushed him, quite at a loss as to what to do; eventually, allowing my natural impulses overcome the reservations I had about taking such liberties with my friend, I pulled him up into my arms to rest his head on my shoulder and rocked him, hushing softly.

He sniffed wetly, but he did stop crying. "This body is intolerable, Watson. Some rough boys stole my magnifying glass."

"Oh, Holmes, I am sorry." I thought for a moment. "Would you like some pear drops?"

"Don't patronise me!" Holmes snapped into my ear. Chastened, I placed him on his armchair and handed him a clean handkerchief. He wiped his face moodily, then mumbled something.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I suppose some pear drops wouldn't go amiss," he muttered.


	6. Another Fine Mess You've Gotten Us Into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: animal transformation.

"Really, Watson, you have got us into a fine mess," Holmes snapped, glaring at the miniature schnauzer on the drawing room table.

The dog - or, puppy, really, since its fur was still the deep, fluffy black of the immature representative of its species - stared back at him with Watson's moist, plaintive eyes, which, Holmes had to admit, were no less devastatingly effective for their new position. Holmes attempted to muster the appropriate tone. 

"Stare at me all you like, Doctor - you need not think your current inability to hold a sponge will induce me to clean your urine off Mrs. Hudson's furniture."

The puppy whined plaintively. Holmes paced the length of the living room several times, and finally lit his pipe. Watson sneezed.

"Not to mention," Holmes expostulated from the other end of the room, "I have no idea where I might acquire dog biscuits at this hour on a Saturday."

Watson cocked his head suddenly, and his ears pricked up; he whined eagerly, and a second later, Holmes heard Mrs. Hudson on the stair.

"Sssh!" he hissed, grabbed Watson by the scruff of the neck, and mounted the stairs at a run, his small burden struggling frantically. Holmes slammed the door behind him before Watson's distressed barks could reach the drawing room. "For heaven's sake, Watson, pull yourself together! You know perfectly well she doesn't allow pets in the house. You - put down that slipper at once!"

Watson looked up, his soft brown eyes full of injured dignity. Consulting detective and puppy battled in silence for a moment, then Holmes sighed, and sat down on the floor, his back to the bed. After a moment, Watson's cold nose nudged at his hand. He whined a little, questioningly.

"Oh, very well."

Watson, finding himself deposited in Holmes' lap, snuffled happily. He settled his head on Holmes' stomach and sighed, his small chest rising and falling against Holmes', his moustache ruffled. Despite his apparent desire to drink in every detail of Holmes' chin, his eyes started to drift closed.

"If you chew my slipper again, it's the scullery for you," Holmes said, and scratched him behind the ears.


	7. A Crucial Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: wingfic, fairies.

"I appreciate your candour, Watson," my friend said, and squeezed my shoulder firmly. I smiled with profound gratitude, as the tight bands of anxiety constricting my heart began to loosen, and I clasped his hand to mine.

"Holmes, I cannot tell you - I agonized over this. I see now that I did you a great disservice in hesitating at all, but I knew I could not keep it from you any longer."

"You were quite right to tell me," he said gravely. "Two men cohabiting, such as ourselves, must take every precaution to avoid suspicion."

"Indeed," I said, relieved he understood.

I believed that was the end of the matter, but later, after our evening meal, Holmes took my arm.

"We have some business together tonight, Watson," he said. "I will go down and hail a hansom. In exactly two minutes, you will follow me, and take another hansom to Regent Street. There you will see me hail another cab, and you will follow me."

"Should I come armed?" I asked, bewildered.

He showed his teeth. "That, my dear doctor, will not be necessary."

I did as Holmes said, and soon found myself being ushered into what appeared a quiet city residence. Inside, a young, clean-cut man took our coats and smiled brightly as Holmes made a note on the register.

"Welcome to Roger's, gentlemen," he said, and a waiter wearing a tutu sauntered past.

"Ah, Holmes -" I said, but was cut off by my friend's mouth coming abruptly into contact with my own.

Some minutes later, warm and flustered, I broke away and drew my friend behind a convenient curtain, realizing that the nature of his misunderstanding required a private interview.

"Holmes," I said urgently, as my friend mapped my throat with his tongue and teeth. "I said I was _of the faerie_."

Holmes paused in kissing my left ear, and I shivered as his sigh brushed the excruciatingly sensitive pointed tip.

"Indeed," he said slowly. "Am I to take it then that my - ministrations are unwelcome?"

"Oh, by no means," I said breathlessly. "But you should be aware that my physiognomy may not be exactly what you, oh, _Holmes_."

Behind me, I felt my jacket seams tear as my wings unfurled.


	8. Post-Trinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Lemon Chicken story based on the sub-subgenre of fic inspired by the Stargate: Atlantis episode "Trinity"? It won't make sense if you weren't... well... you had to be there.

It was after the third time that Mrs. Hudson served us lemon chicken for dinner with a pointed glare and I sat, hungry, while Holmes tucked in with malicious enjoyment, that I realized that the situation was unsalvageable. With a heavy heart I walked for hours, debating my course of action; and so it was that I found myself wandering along the docks, reading the destinations of the vessels.

Even through two pairs of trousers and three woollen jumpers, I shivered in the cold of the early morning hours, and realized that soon I would have to increase my clothing, if I did not wish Holmes to notice my increasing emaciation. As it was, he had several times almost caught me self-administering an emetic, a precaution which I had initially felt necessary for my own protection, and later became unable to forego. A steamer bound to China caught my eye.

For a bleak, long moment, I considered it. To begin again - to see far distant shores, and forget Holmes and the hideous violation to which he had subjected me, to which I had consented, may God help me, believing I was in the wrong. But as I considered it, something within me rebelled. Why should I leave my life behind? But it was clear that I could no longer remain at Baker Street, where I feared for my life with every mouthful.

There were lights under London Bridge, and I turned towards them as a plant does to the sun, knowing not where I was going, but only that I could not go home. A group of men wearing only sackcloth were roasting rats over a brazier at the entrance to a sewer. I walked towards them, despairing of salvation.


End file.
